Birthday Dinner

It’s my birthday today. The Big Three-Oh. 

The sound of the front door closing wakes me. It usually does, on the rare days when Ryan goes to work before I’m up. I lie in our king-size bed for a few minutes, eyes still closed, luxuriating in the knowledge that I don’t have any reason to get up for hours if I don’t want to. My left hand drifts to the collar around my neck, fingering the supple leather, well worn-in now after three years of daily wear. I pouted briefly when Ryan told me he had to work on my birthday, but the blow was softened by his promise to take an early finish and plan—in his words—“an evening to remember.”

The smell of coffee and warm butter drifts into my nostrils. I sit up, and spot the tray on the bedside table. A cafetière of coffee, a little jug, a croissant and a pot of jam are joined by a black gift bag fastened with a silver ribbon. I pour myself coffee, add a splash of cream—how decadent—and take a long gulp before grabbing the bag and fiddling with the ribbon. On top of the three wrapped parcels inside is a card, with the words “OPEN ME FIRST” written across the envelope in Ryan’s messy script. Like the good girl I am, I do as I am told. Giggling at the picture of a very smug-looking cat about to knock a tiered cake off a table, I open the card to see what my beloved Sir has to say. 

“Good morning, Angel, and happy birthday! The three enclosed gifts will take starring roles in tonight’s celebrations. See you at six! Wear that black lingerie I like xxx” 

The first parcel—with a “1” written on the paper in Sharpie—is soft. I unwrap it gently and find a black leather blindfold. I lift it to my face and inhale deeply—apart from fresh coffee, leather is my favourite smell in the world. It’s the scent of danger and debauchery, of dimly-lit dungeons and secret, after-hours parties. When I turn it over in my hand, I see he’s had the words “Angel & Sir” embossed in small gold lettering on the underside.

I turn to parcel “2,” which is bigger, heavier and rectangular. I open it slowly, revelling in the anticipation. The paper is only halfway off the box when I realise what it is, and let out what Ryan describes as my 'babygirl squee': a high-pitched squeal of pure joy. It’s the Mini Magic Wand vibrator I’ve been lusting after for months, touted as one of the most powerful toys on the market, especially given its small size. He’s got me the purple one, too! There’s a sticker on the box, with another note to me in Ryan’s handwriting: “Put me on charge immediately, but DO NOT use me before Sir gets home.” 

Fuck. He loves to tease me and he’s upped his game here. I unpack the toy, taking a moment to fondle the beautifully soft, supple plum silicone, stroking it like I would a cock, before I grab the charger from the box too and plug the vibrator in next to the bed. The charging light comes on, and I turn my attention to the third and final gift—a tiny, slim package. I open it to find a plain sealed envelope inside. Curiously, I slide my finger under the flap, open it, and pull out the contents. It’s a gift voucher for my favourite sushi restaurant for… holy shit, that place is expensive but how much does he think we’re going to eat? 

My mind races. How do these pieces fit together? He’s pretty clearly communicated via the presents that he’s taking me out for sushi and that there will be some serious kinky fuckery later, but if I know him then the full story will be altogether more devious than the sum of its apparent parts. This, I realise, is all part of the game. He’s taunting me with the anticipation of what might be coming. Tonight. 

Speaking of coming. I know I’m not allowed to orgasm unless given explicit permission, which I currently definitely do not have, but my hand slips down between my legs even so. I’m already soaking wet. A gasp escapes my lips as my slick fingers find my swollen clitoris, rubbing it gently in circles. I glance down at the new vibrator, charging by the side of the bed, imagining how it’s going to feel against my clit. I could just… try it a little bit, couldn’t I? Just for a few seconds, to see how it feels? 

No. I am Sir’s good girl and my pleasure belongs to him. If he says I must wait, then I will wait. 

I’m rubbing my clit harder now, my breathing coming in shuddering rasps as I bring myself closer and closer to the edge. My other hand slides down to join the first, fingers dipping inside to stroke my G-spot. 

How long has it been since I was last permitted the glorious release of orgasm? A week? Eight days? Yes. Yes. I’m so close, teetering on that knife-edge, one more rub and I’ll… but no, I mustn’t!

I groan, biting my lip as I pull my hands away and grab handfuls of the duvet in my fists, gasping for breath. I force myself to keep my legs spread—even bringing my thighs together could trigger the forbidden pleasure right now. My cunt pulses with the familiar ache of denied orgasm, clit twitching with unfulfilled need. I feel my juices soaking the sheet beneath my ass.  

I flop back onto my pillows. This is going to be a long and frustrating day. 

---

When the door clicks shut downstairs at five fifty-five, I’m towelling my hair dry in the bedroom. I hear Ryan drop his briefcase and picture him taking off his jacket and throwing it over the bannister at the bottom of the stairs. I count the stairs as he climbs them, and turn to smile at him in my nude glory as he comes into the room. 

“Well good evening, Angel,” he says, hazel eyes widening as he takes in my nakedness and then crosses the room to kiss my lips. 

“Good evening, Sir.”

He glances next to the bed and sees the new vibrator plugged in, the solid green light indicating that the battery is now fully charged. “I see you’ve followed your instructions. Good girl.”

“Thank you for the presents, Sir.” 

His smile widens. “I bet it’s been hell looking at that lovely new toy all day and not being allowed to play with it yet, hasn’t it?” 

I bite my lip and nod a little too enthusiastically. He slides an arm around my waist, pulling me in close to him with his hand in the small of my back, as his other hand slides down across the curve of my belly and into my dark brown curls of pubic hair. I arch my back and moan as his fingers find the centre of my heat and wetness. He teases me with gentle, lingering strokes of my vulva, avoiding the erect cluster of nerves that is crying out for him to touch it. I find myself whimpering, holding on to him and bucking my hips against his hand. By the time he slides two fingers inside me, I’m dripping down the inside of my thighs. His fingers strum my G-spot, taunting me closer and closer to the climax I just know he’s not going to let me have. 

“Fuck, Sir…” My fingers dig into his back as I try to pull myself back from the brink. “Sir, please may I come?” I whine in frustration as the fingers are withdrawn. 

“Not a chance, baby.” He slaps my pussy twice, quite gently. “Get dressed. We have a reservation.” 

My legs are shaking and it takes me a minute to pull myself together enough to finish getting ready to go out. I slip into Ryan’s favourite lingerie, which fortunately happens to be my favourite as well. Black lace, not too flashy. Understated elegance. My slinkiest little black dress goes on next. I brush out my hair, letting it fall in its natural waves to the middle of my back, and put on just the slightest hint of make-up. Ryan would really prefer I wore none at all, but mascara and a touch of blush make me feel deliciously feminine. I stand back and give myself a once-over in the bedroom mirror. Yes. 

He drives. He instructs me to sit with my legs slightly spread and my hands on the seat by my sides. When his right hand isn’t on the gear-stick, it’s stroking my legs, running up and down my inner thighs, just grazing my pussy through the already-damp lace of my panties. Maddeningly unsatisfying. 

“The look on your face,” he says with a soft laugh as I squirm in my seat. “If anyone glances into our car they’ll be able to see what a horny little slut you are.” I try to rearrange my face into a suitably neutral expression, which proves impossible. 

At the restaurant, Ryan says something quietly to the waiter on greeting duty, who nods and flashes us his best “service” smile. To my surprise, he does not show us to the corner table Ryan usually requests. Instead, we’re heading for the bookable private dining room in the back. He opens the door for us and stands back to let us enter, Ryan ahead of me. The door clicks shut behind us. 

Inside, standing in an expectant semicircle, are six of our closest “lifestyle” friends.

“Surprise!” they all cry when I step out from behind my Sir.  

I squeal. A surprise party! I might be thirty, but my inner babygirl comes out in full force. I pounce on my best friend Gem first, hugging her gleefully, and then make my way down the little line of some of my absolute favourite people. 

Gem, whose idea of “dressy” typically involves slightly less scuffed Dr Martens than usual, wears a t-shirt with the words “Ouch is not a safe word!” emblazoned across her ample chest. Her boyfriend Patrick stands by her side, smiling. His shirt says, “True Switch.” Mark is tall and imposing in leather, with his slave Kara by his side in a very skimpy emerald dress and her permanent steel collar. Alyssa and Kate exude their power-couple Domme vibe, Alyssa in a cocktail dress the same red as her long hair, her wife full-butch in a fabulous tailored suit. 

I look about the private dining room Ryan has hired for this party. I feel a questioning expression come over my face as I take it in. The majority of the tables have been moved away to the side and on one of them sit several large, covered food platters, sake set, chopsticks and a stack of plates. There is a single, long table in the middle of the room, with what looks like a towel laid out across it. I’m just about to ask Ryan what this set-up is all about, when… 

“Angel?”

I jump to attention. “Yes, Sir?” 

He fixes his eyes on mine and they gleam as he issues a single command. “Strip.”